


Wade Wilson’s Super Awesome Mixtape of Love to Peter Parker

by sadieb798



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bad Jokes, Ben Parker Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool is a Captain America Fanboy, Dirty Jokes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, He's 24, Humor, I imagine Joe Pesci as Ben Parker, Joe Pesci - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Memes, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Nursing, POV Peter Parker, Peter Is Not A Minor, Peter is an Iron Man Fanboy, Peter was never bitten by the spider, Pining, Protective Peter Parker, Slow Burn, TA Peter Parker, Temporary Character Death, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson is an Avenger, it works, not to the max tho, poop jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: There’s a body lying on his carpet.Peter’s breath catches in his throat, it feels like his heart just took a swan-dive into his stomach and landed with a plop.Oh God, oh God,his brain chants frantically. He immediately lurches toward his desk, reaching for his phone, but he overcompensates and knocks it off. He watches, breath caught in his throat, as it falls to the carpet with a soft thud and bounces under his bed.Peter immediately dives for it. The phone’s not very far from him, so he doesn’t need to stretch as he reaches for it. His fingers grasp the beveled corners and he pulls it towards him. Instinctively he looks up, and instantly regrets it.The white lenses of a superhero mask meet his, and blink.“Hey, how’s it going?” Deadpool asks, his voice gravelly as he waves a hand.





	1. Call Me Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to the mods of the SPBB for being totally awesome and making this a thing; the enablers of the Isn't It Bromantic discord for being enabling enablers; Jill who is the bestest person and beta and listener who I can ever have ever and for inadvertently inspiring this fic with the Spotify playlist we started last summer; and lastly to Black Sodas for being a great sport and creating great work for this fic!
> 
>  
> 
> To the memory of Stan Lee and Steve Ditko: thanks for the arachnid kid. Excelsior, you true believers!

It’s just past one in the afternoon when Peter finally gets home from school.

He’s so tired from the day, ready for a shower and a nap, and the last obstacle between him and his bed is getting into his aunt and uncle's apartment. He slides his Iron Man key into the lock, and with one flick, the doorknob turns successfully and Peter’s able to enter. All the tension from the day lifts off his shoulders, as he stands inside and lets the door shut behind him.

“I’m home!” he shouts, the earbuds he’s wearing blast music that’s definitely too loud now that he’s out of the subway tunnels; he has to yell just to hear himself. He drags his feet down the hallway towards his bedroom, passing the avocado-green sectional couch on his way.

With one last Herculean effort, he opens the door to his room and barely resists flopping down onto his bed. His blue betta, Ripley, bobs her head, the only greeting he gets in the otherwise empty apartment. When he gets closer, the beautiful fish blows bubbles at him.

“Hey babe,” he greets, pausing his music as he rests his phone next to Ripley’s tank. He bends down to meet his pet’s big black eyes, and lightly touches the tank’s glass affectionately.

“Sorry I’m late. I _would’ve_ been home earlier, but Patel kept dragging on his lectures, and I was stuck grading papers - that 8AM Biomechanics is _killer,_ morning lectures are the _worst_ ,” he complains, stretching to shut his bedroom door. “I almost fell asleep on the 7 train coming back - but managed not to because these guys were making some really good music and I didn’t want to miss it.”

Peter slugs off his backpack, letting it slide onto the ground between his sneakered feet, as his fingers deftly pull out his earbuds, and the sounds of the city rush up to his bedroom. He picks up Ripley’s can of food flakes and sprinkles a few into her tank. The betta immediately swims to the surface, her lips opening and closing around the food, and Peter smiles at her enthusiasm.

“I ended up giving them a dollar when I left,” he continues, straightening up to his full height and unzipping his sweater. He yanks it off and tosses it into the laundry hamper, but instead of cool air, he feels heat.

“Why is it so hot in here?” he wonders as he turns to look at the window, which is...wide open. With a frown, Peter crosses to the foot of his bed to investigate, but stops short.

There’s a body lying on his carpet.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat, it feels like his heart just took a swan-dive into his stomach and landed with a _plop._ He can only see from the feet to the thighs, and he stares at the pair of red, leather-clad, sprawled-out legs, their black boots resting on the ledge of the window sill. They’re not moving.

_Oh God, oh God,_ his brain chants frantically. He immediately lurches toward his desk, reaching for his phone, but he overcompensates and knocks it off. He watches, breath caught in his throat, as it falls to the carpet with a soft _thud_ and bounces under his bed.

Peter immediately dives for it. The phone’s not very far from him, so he doesn’t need to stretch as he reaches for it. His fingers grasp the beveled corners and he pulls it towards him. Instinctively he looks up, and instantly regrets it.

The white lenses of a superhero mask meet his, and blink.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Deadpool asks, his voice gravelly as he waves a hand.

Peter sucks in a quick breath and scrambles backwards from his spot by the bed. He doesn’t stop moving until his back hits his bedroom door with a _thwack,_ and a short flare of pain bursts on his spine.

“U-U-Uh,” Peter stutters, a fresh wave of sweat breaking out along his brow and his heart beating frantically along his ribs.

While gripping his phone in his right hand, the fingers of his left grope against the door’s wooden surface and finding the cool doorknob. It's all flight response that makes him twist it open and run out. He’s racing out of his bedroom, passing the couch, the lone bookcase, rounding the kitchen island filled with frying pans and slamming the door of his aunt and uncle’s bedroom behind him. Peter sprints past their bed, his heart thudding hard in his chest, and skids into their bathroom. But even then he doesn’t feel remotely safe until he’s flicked the lock of the doorknob.

Peter backs away, taking slow, measured breaths, trying to lower his heart rate.

“Okay,” he tells himself, “okay, okay, okay, okay.” He turns and looks at himself in the mirror, and his reflection is terrified: face as white as a sheet, sweat on his forehead, and eyes wide. It feels too surreal, like somewhere between getting off the subway and entering his aunt and uncle’s apartment, he’d been approached by that Mysterio dude and this is all an illusion.

“Deadpool is in our apartment,” he calmly says to the mirror. “No big deal, just...the most _dangerous_ ex-mercenary in the world is in the same place I used to do my Chemistry homework. No biggie.”

Peter quickly unlocks his phone, the cracked-webbing of the screen lighting up immediately.

“911, what is your emergency?” asks the lady on the other end.

“Hi, um,” Peter forces himself to take a deep breath. “I just got home from school and Deadpool’s in my bedroom,” he says in a rush while running a hand through his hair.

“Please hold while I transfer you,” the dispatch tells him.

Peter’s forehead scrunches in confusion. “What? No, wait - ”

But she’s gone, and the Barenaked Ladies’ _One Week_ replaces her voice. Peter stands there, frozen, as he listens to the duo explain why they’re the kind of guys who laugh at a funeral. Bizarrely enough, after a few seconds he finds the familiar rhythm soothing, and can’t help but tap his fingers along to the beat against his thigh.

“SHIELD emergency hotline,” says a male voice, cutting off the song and making Peter jump.

“H - ” is as far as he gets until he’s interrupted again.

“Due to the increase of criminal activity, all of our agents are busy,” the voice explains, and Peter’s jaw drops.

_“Are you serious?!”_ he screeches, waving his one free hand.

“If you are experiencing a matter of crisis,” the voice continues, “please hang up and follow evacuation instructions. If not, please hold for the first available SHIELD agent.”

_“Chickity China the Chinese chicken, have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin’. Watchin’ X-Files with no lights on, we’re dans la maison -”_

Peter pulls the phone away from his ear, the song tinny and faraway. _Now what?_

* * *

Peter approaches his bedroom door cautiously, frying pan gripped tightly in both hands.

He doesn’t wanna make any noise, so he walks on his tiptoes. One foot slowly in front of the other, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards in the hall.

_No sudden movements,_ he reminds himself, stopping outside his still-open door. _This is_ Deadpool _after all_ . The reports _The Daily Bugle_ had on the staggeringly high pile of bodies that was the Merc’s confirmed kills pop into his head, and Peter grips the frying pan tighter.

Taking a slow breath, Peter takes one hand off his weapon of choice. He presses his fingers against his bedroom door, and oh-so-slowly pushes it open.

Apart from the sounds of traffic coming in from the open window, there’s a low murmuring. Peter clutches the pan closer to his chest, and peeks around the door jam.

“ - I don’t mind it usually, but you _know_ shit’s fucked up,” Deadpool’s raspy voice explains.

Frowning, Peter steps closer and looks around his room. But he doesn’t see the Merc with a Mouth anywhere; his room’s completely normal. If it weren’t for the running commentary, Peter would have thought that he’d left, or was never there in the first place. As it stands, Peter takes a few cautious steps closer to his bed, raising the frying pan higher.

“What?” Deadpool’s voice falls silent, like he’s listening to something. Peter freezes, holding his breath. “No, I don’t wanna climb him like a tree, shush.”

“H-hello?” Peter finally asks, trying to sound assertive and probably missing the mark by an entire train station.

“Yo!” yells Deadpool, shocked. “That’s not one of my voices?!” he asks shrilly.

“Um?” Peter asks, not sure how to answer that. “No?” he tries.

“Oh!” Deadpool exclaims cheerfully. “It’s pretty eyes! Bambi eyes? I don’t know which one sounds better, honestly.”

Peter can’t help the flush he feels explode across his cheeks, and for a second he mentally stumbles. He tightens his grip on the frying pan, and it helps him focus on the situation again. He rounds his bed and peeks around the corner.

The white lenses of Deadpool’s mask peer up at him, his entire body from head to toe clad in red leather. _Could he look any more like Santa Claus?_ Peter wonders.

“Maybe Rapunzel would be a better nickname,” Deadpool says, squinting at the frying pan.

“Definitely better than Bambi,” Peter sasses. In that split second his brain catches up with his mouth, and his eyes widen in realization. _Why would you say that?!_ His brain screams. _You know what he’s capable of, you idiot! What is_ wrong _with you?!?_

But instead of turning Peter into a kabob with one of his katanas, Deadpool sputters in outrage.

“Excuse you, what have you got against a poor, defenseless, orphaned deer?!” he asks, offended on behalf of a cartoon animal.

“Nothing,” Peter replies, shrugging with the frying pan still clutched in his hands. “He’s just not as awesome as Rapunzel.”

Deadpool’s eyes widen at Peter in surprise, like he’d just told him Captain America was secretly a Nazi.

“Good point!” he acknowledges, his body relaxing on Peter’s carpet. “Punzie’s a badass, and made frying pans deadly again.” The Merc looks pointedly up at the pan in Peter’s hands, and he gets the impression that beneath the mask, Deadpool’s raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean,” Peter concedes, lowering it. “If it was good enough for her, it’s good enough for me - wait a second, _no!”_ he yells, quickly raising the pan again and pointing it at the mouthy ex-mercenary. “ _You_ broke in here! You don’t get to be friendly!”

“Psh, not a chance, Webs, that’s _your_ department,” Deadpool states with derision, waving his right hand like it’s a fact.

“Webs?” Peter repeats, flummoxed. His stance with the frying pan loosens microscopically.

“Yeah, you’re the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, and I’m the Merc with the Mouth!” Deadpool proclaims, the lines around his mouth pulled back like he’s grinning. “It’s our schdict! Like the punny banter we have!”

“I’m not making friends with someone who just broke into my apartment!” Peter yells. He’s confused, sure, but more than anything he’s angry and not a little terrified at what could happen next.

“ _Whaaaat_ ,” Deadpool asks, dragging out the word. “Spidey, I thought we were buds?”

“No, we are _not,”_ Peter growls, gripping the frying pan tighter.

That’s when Deadpool _really_ looks at him. The mask’s white lenses look up, slowly dragging from Peter’s head down to his toes. They flick from side to side; absorbing every detail about him.

“Spidey, where your webs at?” he asks finally.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Peter asks, exasperated. He can feel his forehead furrowing, and knows that later - if he survives this encounter - he’s gonna have a killer headache. “What are you talking about?”

“Ohhhh,” Deadpool draws out in realization, his eyes growing big. “You didn’t get bit by a spider in this universe, did you? That would explain why you don’t recognize me, otherwise I’d be strung up in your webs faster than you can say _what’s your safe word?”_

“Are you psychotic or something?” Peter asks, genuinely curious. But also concerned. _Mostly_ concerned.

“Why, are you offering to let me stretch out on your couch?” Deadpool flirts, fluttering his eyes up at Peter. “’Cuz I think the bed’s much closer, Dr. Freud.”

Peter sputters incoherently, while he feels his face flame up faster than the Human Torch. Words try to make it out of his throat, but somewhere along the way they get jumbled and it’s like a horrible accident on the Jersey Turnpike.

“Whassa matter, Spidey?” Deadpool asks, tilting his head. “Black Cat got your tongue?”

“What’re you even _doing_ here?” Peter demands, the first words to make it past his mouth successfully. He drops the frying pan to his side, weary of this entire interaction.

“Well, y’see, Rapunzel, Hero Formerly Known As Spidey,” Deadpool starts, shifting his legs until he’s angled himself towards Peter. “I was on an Avengers mission - strictly superheroing, mind. I’m doing my thang, totally in the zone, when I get my ass blasted out of the sky by one of those knock-off Chitauri, and then good ol’ Leftie gets lopped off from my wrist and thrown into the East River - ”

As he says this last part, Peter’s eyes flick to the limb in question. There’s a grisly stump of an arm where his left hand should be, a dark pool of blood around it that’s been seeping into Peter’s carpet for who knows how long. Immediately Peter starts to gag, the urge to puke burning up from his stomach into his throat.

_“Hurk,”_ the sound just manages to escape just as Peter’s managed to press a tight fist against his mouth and stop anything else from coming out. He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing instead of the - _stop, don’t...don’t even think about it, don’t,_ he chants while trying to get himself under control.

“You okay?” Deadpool asks, his voice gentling into concern.

“I’m fine,” Peter strains, and wow it sounds like he’s being strangled. “Just give me a sec.”

_Why couldn’t it be Tony Stark that broke into my apartment?_ He wonders. _We’d be having a better time, probably, but nooooo. Typical Parker luck._

“Take all the time you need, sugar lips,” Deadpool replies.

Once Peter manages to wrangle his stomach into submission, he’s finally able to take a deep breath. He can feel his lungs expand with the air, until they’re briefly pressing up against his ribcage and they deflate. Peter lowers his hand, and blinks open his eyes at Deadpool - who’s watching him intently.

“Do you need some chocolate, Harry?” Deadpool asks, the lines on his masked forehead shifting as an eyebrow is raised.

“It’s Peter,” he replies automatically, and wants to fucking punch himself in the face. _WHY,_ his brain screeches.

Deadpool nods, like this is acceptable. “Don’t worry, Pete,” he assures, lowering his arms. Peter forces his eyes to stay on Deadpool’s face instead of looking down at his left arm again. “Shouldn’t be long now ‘til I’m all healed up. I had to lay low, y’see, and yours was the only window open.” He sighs heavily, laying his head back on the carpet with a dull _whomp_. “Except given how long this exposition took, I think the battle’s long over.”

Peter’s eyebrows pinch together, and his lips turn downwards into a frown. _What the hell does that mean?_ He wonders, but doesn’t say. “Uh,” he replies instead, blinking in confusion. “I guess?”

The ex-merc groans, and his eyes close into white slits. “I’m gonna be in _so_ much trouble,” he mutters.

“Is SHIELD gonna think you bailed?” Peter asks, tilting his head to better look at Deadpool.

“Probably, but SHIELD is the least of my problems,” he responds candidly. Deadpool raises his right hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m gonna get the full-blown Cap Lecture, complete with the Captain America’s Disappointed In You Face all the fangirls are writing about.”

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise.

“Shit, and I _just_ got him to respect me too,” Deadpool continues, his voice rising in a whine.

Peter feels a little bad about that, his stomach twisting with residual worry. Maybe he’s become invested too fast, maybe it’s seeing Deadpool humanized and learning - albeit inadvertently - that Captain America is his hero. It makes Peter think how _he'd_ feel if he'd disappointed Tony Stark - which doesn’t feel great at _all._

Maybe it's that empathy that makes Peter want to help him.

_That is a_ phenomenally _stupid idea,_ his brain tells him, _you shouldn’t even be talking to the guy who broke into your apartment and bled on your floor. But...getting him help_ would _get him out of the apartment faster -_

“Do you need to call someone?” he asks.

“Yep,” Deadpool replies, popping the ‘p’. “But I lost my phone somewhere, and my Avengers card is busted. Oh, look at that: fusing comics canon and movieverse - like _that’s_ never been done.”

Peter ignores that last part - he has a feeling that he’ll be ignoring about two-thirds of whatever Deadpool has to say anyway. “Oh, okay. It’s just I’ve been on hold with SHIELD for the past twenty minutes, and I thought that’d be easier.”

Deadpool goes eerily still, his head turns and he’s looking up at Peter. His eyes squint at him, evaluating. “What?” he asks, his voice raspy.

Peter pulls out his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, where the violins of _Call Me Maybe_ strain. “Yeah, I got ‘em on the phone when I first found you, but they put me on hold.”

There’s a beat where Deadpool doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Peter, the white lenses of his mask unblinking.

Peter flicks his gaze away, looking anywhere but at Deadpool’s face. He’s starting to feel like lending his phone to a mercenary-turned-Avenger _might_ not be the greatest idea he’s ever had. But before he can take it back, Deadpool crosses his right hand over his torso and stretches it toward Peter.

“My lifesaver. Please, gimme,” he says, making grabby fingers for the phone.

Peter doesn’t say anything as he passes it to him. The Merc lands back on the floor with a flop, the phone raised above his head. Peter watches as he thumbs one of the keys and holds it for about a minute.

Abruptly the music cuts off, and Deadpool quickly puts the phone to his mask-clad ear.

“Phil!” he says brightly, the lines around his mouth deepen as it spreads into a grin. “How’s my favorite Agent doin’?”

“Deadpool.” Peter can hear another man’s voice say with a bit of relief, tinny on the other line. “You missed check-in. Where are you?”

Deadpool turns back to look at Peter, the white eye lenses squinting in question.

“Queens,” Peter stage-whispers.

“Queens,” Deadpool repeats nonchalantly, turning away again. “I got maimed on the mission and had to lay low for a bit.”

Peter feels like he’s intruding on a private conversation, and he's getting more awkward by the second. He glances away from the merc on the phone, giving him a bit of privacy and frowns. _This is_ my _room, I shouldn’t be feeling awkward._ But it doesn’t go away.

_Wait a minute,_ Peter realizes with a blink. _If Deadpool calls SHIELD, that means they’ll come_ here. Panic rises in his gut, and Peter’s stomach tightens anxiously. _Why didn’t I think this through? It’s bad enough having Deadpool here - but the_ whole _Men in Black group? In May and Ben’s apartment?!_

“Mm, tempting, but no,” Deadpool replies casually. Peter tenses, realizing half a second late that he missed Deadpool’s half of the conversation. The possibility of a shady government-esque agency tramping around in his home kind of has him freaking out. “I’ll have my buddy Dopinder pick me up.”

Peter almost sags with relief.

“No sweat, he’ll just drop me back at HQ,” continues the ex-merc, “provided SHIELD foot the bill.”

The man on the other line hums, saying something else Peter can’t hear, and tacks on an “Alright.”

“Coolio, see ya soon, Coulson,” Deadpool tells him and hangs up. He looks over at Peter, with a raised eyebrow. “I gotta call my buddy to give me a ride, do you mind...?” he trails off, wiggling Peter’s phone at him pointedly.

“Uh, no. Go ahead,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’ll just, uh,” he gestures to the door.

“Thanks,” Deadpool says, turning his eyes back to the phone. Peter has a split second to wonder how he's going to dial when Deadpool moves. He rests it on his broad chest, screen up, and pokes in a number with his only index finger.

“Okay,” Peter repeats mostly to himself, as he walks back to the bedroom door. He hears Deadpool greet a Dopinder on the other line as he leaves.

* * *

About an hour of tensely and awkwardly avoiding his room and doing everything short of crawling on the ceiling, two separate knocks sound at the apartment door.

Resigned, Peter gets up. “Please don’t let that be MJ or Ned,” he mutters to himself as he squints through the peephole. Knowing _his_ luck though...

Thankfully, instead of his friends, there’s a man. He’s about Peter’s height, but leaner. He has curly black hair, a few strands falling into his big dark eyes, and skin that reminds Peter of an orange-brown Feldspar rock. The newcomer’s glancing around the hallway, an unassuming smile on his face, as he sways slightly in place.

_Well, he doesn’t_ look _threatening,_ Peter thinks as he unlocks and opens the door.

“Hello,” the man greets pleasantly with a heavy Indian accent, giving Peter a brief wave. “I’m here to pick up Mr. Pool?”

“Dopinder?” asks Peter, and the man nods. “Come on in,” he says as he holds the door wide for him. Dopinder obliges, stepping through, and Peter shuts the door behind him.

“So,” Peter starts, as he turns around to look at him. Dopinder’s standing just on the edge of the living room, eyes on Peter and hands steady at his sides. “You’re Deadpool’s driver? That’s gotta be cool.”

“Ah. Actually, I am a mere cab driver,” he replies, gesturing at himself. “But, as DP is a close friend, I am his ride whenever I am able.”

_DP?_ Peter can't helping thinking, mentally squinting. _Does he honestly refer to himself as that?_

“Ten outta ten, recommend!” Deadpool cheerfully responds, and Peter looks up in time to see him emerging from his bedroom. “It’s like having my own personal Uber!”

The merc’s standing on his own two legs, and swaggering confidently towards them. Just by the spring to his step and the sway to his hips, it’s like he was never bleeding on the floor of Peter’s bedroom to begin with. He’s got a few inches on Peter height-wise - okay, a _lot -_ and is bulkier in the muscle department than Peter can ever hope to be; his thighs alone look like they could crush a watermelon to pieces.

It’s only as Peter’s evaluating him that he notices that Deadpool’s left hand has grown back, and Peter has to mentally reign back a flinch.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting - maybe a tiny hand on a regular wrist - but what Peter sees couldn’t be farther from that. The ex-merc’s hand is...well, _mutilated_ would be putting it lightly. There are sores and pockmarks all over the back of his hand, the skin looks paper thin and the veins pop. _Is he still healing?_ Peter wonders, forcing his eyes up.

Deadpool stops just next to Peter and Dopinder, and adjusts his utility belt that has his trademark emblem as a buckle. Peter looks away, ashamed that he’d been staring for so long in the first place.

“Whelp,” the merc says, pulling out a black glove from one of the belt’s pockets and sliding it over his left hand. Once the glove’s secure, Deadpool rubs both his hands together and puts them on his hips. “Ready to go?” he asks, turning to Dopinder.

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth, DP,” the cab driver replies. His dark eyes are lit up with an intensified hero worship that’s so bright, it makes Peter feel uncomfortable just standing there.

“M’kay,” Deadpool utters, starting to walk towards the door. Peter’s still close enough to the knob, so he leans forward and opens it for him. “Ooh! Such a gentleman!” Deadpool coos, fluttering his eyes.

“Uh,” Peter replies intelligently, fighting down a blush as his fingers tighten around the doorknob.

“Now, Petey, I know you had a _lot_ to deal with today,” Deadpool starts, turning back to face him, and Peter’s somehow able to see sincerity in those white lenses of his. “But I gotta say, rocky start though we had, you handled the sitch _extremely_ well.” The merc pulls a business card from thin air, holding it between his two fingers and bestowing it to Peter.

Not sure what else to do, he accepts the card without even looking at it.

“Oh,” Dopinder gasps. Peter looks up; the driver’s mouth is open in an _‘O’_ and his already big eyes are bigger. Eyebrow raised, Peter stares expectantly back at Deadpool.

“I owe you _big_ time. Call me whenever you need me,” he tells him, tapping at the card tucked underneath Peter’s thumb with one black-clad index finger, “and I’ll be there.”

“Um, okay,” Peter responds, unsure.

“No, really. Even if it’s just like, to watch the new _Squirrel Girl,_ or to bring pizza,” Deadpool leans closer until his face is scant inches away from Peter’s ear, and it takes all of Peter's self-control not to lean away from him.

“It’s also good for one free blowjob,” Deadpool whispers, his hot breath escaping his leather mask and blowing against Peter’s earlobe.

Peter feels himself turn bright red, a shiver going down his spine, and his grip on the card tightens. But he doesn’t even get a chance to respond - Deadpool’s already out the door and down the hallway with Dopinder on his heels.

“Seltzer water and lemon for the blood!” Deadpool tosses over his shoulder as he and his companion head down the stairwell and out of sight.

And just like a tornado, Deadpool’s gone.

* * *

A few minutes after Deadpool’s exit, Peter runs to Mr. Del Mar’s bodega and buys a shitton of lemons and seltzer water.

He can’t believe that shit actually _works_.

* * *

Peter’s home alone grading papers a few days later when there’s a knock on the door.

Puzzled, he raises himself up from the couch and takes a peek through the peephole. The person on the other side is a mailwoman, who doesn’t look too happy to be carrying the large cardboard package in her hands. Quickly, Peter turns the lock and opens the door.

“Peter Parker?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. He nods, curious. “Sign here, please,” she requests, indicating the clipboard with paper and a pen laying on top of the box.

He quickly scrawls his name, and once he’s done, she passes him the box. It’s a bit heavy, but he manages. She takes the clipboard away, and with a “Have a nice day”, leaves for the stairwell.

Peter carefully hustles towards the couch and sets the box on the wooden coffee table. He fetches some scissors and tears into the cardboard flaps, cutting through the duct tape. Once he opens it, he finds nothing but styrofoam peanuts. Apprehensive, Peter shuffles through them; digging until his fingers touch something that feels grainy and solid. His hand smooths over it, and he realizes that what he's touching is a handle.

Eyebrows furrowing, he wraps his fingers around it, and slowly pulls it out. It weighs a _ton,_ and Peter has to quickly adjust his grip to hold the handle with both hands. _What the hell, why is this so heavy?_

He lifts the thing, holding it like he’s seen pictures of Thor with his hammer. It’s only once it’s out of the box that Peter sees the thing he’s holding is a cast iron skillet. With a blink, he rests the circular pan on his hand. It’s black, solid all the way through, and slightly rough to the touch, except underneath where it’s smooth on his palm. Inside the pan, there’s a yellow post-it note with messy handwriting scrawled across.

_Webs,_

_You'll do more damage with this - might want to work on those guns tho_

_-DP_

Inexplicably, Peter finds himself smiling.


	2. Save It For Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I rest up here?” Deadpool asks, lenses going round in a weird attempt at puppy-eyes without the trembling lower lip accompaniment.  
> Peter’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

It’s times like these that Peter thinks Deadpool’s visit was a fluke.

He’s sitting at his desk, alone in his room, trying and failing to write up the discussion activities for Patel’s Economics class that’s due on Thursday. When instead, the black oblong diamond shapes and the white lenses that made up the face of Deadpool’s mask decide to swim through his brain, fully distracting him from his  _ job _ . Again.

_ I was  _ literally  _ standing right here,  _ Peter recalls, throwing a look over his shoulder at the window to his room, where the curtains billow innocently with the breeze coming from outside.  _ I was right here while Deadpool was bleeding out on my floor. _

And sometimes he forgets that little fact. He  _ knows  _ how much elbow grease he had to put into scrubbing that stain out, the lemon and seltzer water worked so well, that there’s not even a trace of Deadpool left.  _ Forgetting about Deadpool is like forgetting crocodiles have teeth,  _ he thinks _. _

“Okay, Parker, that’s dramatic even for you,” Peter tells himself with a laugh. He runs a hand through his hair, the strands sliding between his fingers, and he’s sure it’s sticking up now. “Uncle Ben uses that skillet religiously, how could you  _ completely  _ forget about Deadpool?”

Peter looks over at Ripley, who’s bobbing in place, her big eyes staring up at him while she blows bubbles. He crosses his arms on top of his work, keyboard to his computer pushed aside, and rests his chin on his forearm.

“When Ben and May asked, I told them they’d won it in a contest, remember?” he asks, not really sure who he’s reminding: his fish, or himself. Either way, they could both use it. Peter smiles a little despite himself, thinking back on how his uncle’s wrinkled face lit up with joy at finally owning something he’s always wanted.

“It’s so bizarre he even showed up here in the first place,” he continues. “Like he was supposed to end up somewhere else, but the universe mixed up the addresses and instead I got stuck with the Regeneratin’ Degenerate. Kinda like those dreams I have sometimes.” 

He watches as Ripley swims leisurely in her tank, her beautiful feathery fins shining teals, iridescent greens, and blues in the light. He can’t help putting a hand out and gently touch the glass to her tank. Peter huffs a breath, and his bangs don’t flutter, so they must be doing that sticking-up thing they do sometimes; like he’s been hanging upside-down for a long time and they think he’s still on the ceiling.

Or something.

“You know what I mean, right, Rip?” he asks his fish. “You’ve had weird dreams-slash-nightmares that the mercenary-turned-Avenger who randomly appeared in your bedroom never showed up, right? You know what I’m talking about?”

Ripley doesn’t even look at him. 

Peter drops his head down onto his arms and groans. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, his voice muffled into his skin.

But after a second, Peter raises his head off his arms, uncrossing his arms, and throws himself back into his chair. His eyes immediately go to the bulletin board hanging above his computer. Instead of looking at the printed class schedules, or the photos of him, Ned and MJ, or him with his family, the traitors go to a lonely business card. It’s a dark red color, with two black oblong diamond shapes and white eyes that meet his each and every time.

“ _Why_ did I even keep that?” Peter grouses, embarrassed, his hands automatically going up to scrub through his hair. “It's not like I was gonna actually take him up on anything! I was gonna toss it as soon as he left - but _noooo!_ Instead I go and stick it to my pinboard like it’s a prize or something.” He sighs heavily, glancing away.

Peter nibbles on his lower lip, his arms crossed. But after a half-second of staring at the carpet, he can’t help but look up at it again. The lenses meet his eyes, and he gets lost in them for a second, remembering the bulk of the Merc with a Mouth.

_ It’s good for one free blowjob,  _ Peter’s hindbrain reminds him. He shivers at the memory, a blush exploding across his face. It’s been over a month, but the merc’s parting words follow him around like a poltergeist: invisible, but causing havoc.

_ Just  _ thinking  _ about those whispered words,  _ he ruminates, and he recognizes that heat gathering low in his stomach. It's something he hasn’t done in a  _ while, _ and at this point in his crazy schedule feels more like an indulgence than a necessity. Like they’ve got minds of their own, his hands drift towards the fly of his jeans.  _ That hot puff of air against my ear, those muscles - _

There’s a knock that makes Peter yelp.

He whips his head around, his heart thudding hard in his chest - expecting May or Ben to be standing in the doorframe. But no one’s there.

Frowning in confusion, he wonders if he imagined it. But no, it starts again - except now he can pinpoint the source’s at the front door. Peter glances at the digital clock in the top right corner of his computer screen, and squints when he sees that it’s only one-forty.

“It’s  _ way  _ too early for Ben to come home, and May’s off on her academic retreat until Friday,” he states to the room. Peter mentally goes through a checklist of potential visitors.

But the knocking starts up again, interrupting him, and doesn’t stop.

Peter turns in his swivel chair, and stands up. “Probably UPS,” he finally concludes, half to himself, and half to Ripley.

“I’m coming,” he calls, the steps of his socked feet muffled against the apartment’s normally creaky floorboards. The knocking finally quiets when he stops in front of the door. Peter presses against it, closes one eye and peers through the peephole.

Deadpool’s standing out in his hallway.

Peter jumps back from the door, his heart leaping to his throat. Any higher, and he’s sure he’d be sticking to the ceiling.  _ What the fuck?!  _ His brain screeches, and his organs feel like they’re in a bouncy castle: flopping around all over the place, and bouncing against his ribcage and pelvis.  _ What the fuck is Deadpool doing at my door?! _

He forcibly takes a deep breath, mentally wrangling his organs to stop jumping around and calm down. Once he’s feeling a lot less panicky, Peter takes one last deep breath, and approaches the door again, looking through the peephole.

Deadpool’s still there.

“I don’t believe this,” Peter quietly mutters, taking as much of the Merc with the Mouth as the fisheye allows.

Deadpool’s standing there, in his iconic form-fitting red costume. It’s surreal to see the Avenger, with crossed katanas strapped to his back, looking around the hallway of Peter’s apartment building like he’s worried about getting in trouble. The ex-merc’s got his left hand clutching his right side, and it gives Peter the impression that this isn’t a social call so much as it is a makeshift hospital visit.

Peter watches as Deadpool rocks on his toes a few times. His whole demeanor reminds Peter of little kids who have to go to the bathroom, but who haven’t been given permission yet. It struck Peter just then how tall Deadpool was: he’s a whole head taller.

_ Wow, yet  _ another _ thing my brain conveniently forgot about _ , Peter chastises, his mouth twisting in disgust with himself.  _ I guess that’s a given, since Deadpool was on the floor the whole time.  _ He blinks again through the peephole, his eyes drawn to the superhero’s arms, the bulging biceps underneath the red leather making his breath catch.  _ Jesus, he could throw me over his shoulder and carry me off like a sack of potatoes. _

Peter can feel his face explode with a blush, the heat spreading down the back of his neck. Embarrassed, he shakes his head to get rid of  _ that _ mental image and all the lust that generates.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbles, unlocking the door and yanking it open.

Deadpool’s head whips around to face Peter, the white eye lenses blinking at him. Peter’s momentarily thrown off by the fact that his eyeline meets the merc’s chest instead of his face.

_ It’s a nice chest, _ his traitorous horny brain thinks as Peter forces his gaze up to look into Deadpool’s mask.

“Hey,” the merc greets, waving his right hand in an arc. The corners of his eyes crinkle with overt friendliness and Peter can’t help but frown. “New hairstyle, Petey? I like it.”

Peter’s momentarily thrown by Deadpool’s words, blinking in confusion. “Wha - ” he starts, turning around to look in the mirror behind him, and immediately sees what the Merc’s talking about. His hair’s still sticking up, like he’d been rubbing a balloon all over his scalp. Embarrassed and quick as anything, Peter’s hands go up.

He doesn’t need the mirror to see the blush spreading across his face; he can feel the heat on the back of his neck and the heat his cheeks give off on the palms of his hands. Peter doesn’t think he imagines the snort of laughter behind him, but he pointedly ignores it until he manages to flatten his hair into a state that’s passable.

Once that’s done, he whirls back to the ex-merc - who’s eyes flick up to meet his quickly...like he’d been staring at something he shouldn’t have.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks, trying to keep his voice level in case any noisy neighbors are listening. Suddenly the stress from That Day a month ago comes flooding back, and Peter feels his stomach clench with nervousness.  _ How the fuck could I  _ possibly  _ forget that? _

“Well,” Deadpool starts with a gusty sigh, “I was in the neighborhood, stopping a mugging - Level 2 superheroing, you know, after creating a brand identity - when I got stabbed.”

Peter’s eyes flick down to Deadpool’s left hand, which hasn’t moved once from his side.

_ Just as I thought,  _ Peter confirms when he sees the blood on the ground by Deadpool’s black boot. The red suit itself does a good job hiding the spreading blood from the wound, but now that Peter’s noticed the puddle on the hallway tiled floor, he can track the merc’s steps just from the trail leading back to the stairwell.

He raises his eyes back up to the man in red, who’s looking at him expectantly.

“Can I rest up here?” Deadpool asks, lenses going round in a weird attempt at puppy-eyes without the trembling lower lip accompaniment.

Peter’s jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah?” Deadpool says, using the hand  _ not _ staunching his stab wound to rub the back of his head.  _ Sheepish is kind of a weird look on a guy in a super-suit,  _ Peter can’t help critiquing, but doesn’t say anything. “The thing is, I  _ know  _ I'll heal up real quick - but this will look freaky if I take the subway. Also, I’d rather  _ not  _ get any blood on the seats - you know how infrequently the MTA cleans those things? Gross.”

“What about Dopinder?” Peter asks, scrunching his eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you get him to pick you up again?” Deadpool’s eyes widen, and Peter gets the impression he’s offended him somehow.

“What am I, made of cash?” Deadpool asks, throwing both arms out. Peter watches as blood spurts out of his wound and lands on the floor with a wet sound. Deadpool's mask twists like he’s grimacing underneath, and Peter feels only a tinsy bit bad.

“Owie,” Deadpool whispers, pressing his hand back to his side and hunching over slightly.

Peter closes his eyes, and forces himself to take a breath through his nose.  _ I can’t believe I was about to masturbate to the thought of this guy,  _ he can’t help thinking.  _ Ryan Reynolds would have been a better choice. _ When he’s ready, Peter opens his eyes and meets Deadpool’s lenses.

“Come on in,” Peter replies helplessly, stepping aside to let him through. Deadpool practically glows despite the stab wound, and follows him inside.

“Thanks,” Deadpool says, turning to Peter as he shuts the apartment door. “Also, do you have a first aid kit?” ****  
** **

* * *

Peter buys a first aid kit off Amazon. He figures it’s sixty dollars well spent - or, at least, sixty dollars he’ll save in surreptitiously replacing his aunt and uncle’s hand towels. He also doesn’t try masturbating again, even though he still dreams of Deadpool. Only this time in a totally different light.

* * *

Peter’s on his laptop around midnight a week later, listening to  _ Smells Like Teen Spirit _ when a tapping sounds at his window.

Frowning, he pauses the song, leans over and lifts his window’s curtain aside. Deadpool’s crouching on his fire escape, white lenses peering into Peter’s room. The merc waves his right hand, but the limb flaps unnaturally and Peter can’t help the grimace that he feels twist his face.

_ It’s either that or throw up _ , he tells himself, swallowing down the bile that’s reflexively shot up his esophagus.

When he’s gotten his stomach under control, Peter sets his laptop aside, and stands at his window. With a deep intake of breath, he heaves the frame up, Deadpool’s eyes watching him the entire time. Once it’s all the way open, Peter stares down at Deadpool, his fingernails biting into the white-painted windowsill.

“Hi,” Deadpool greets, his voice raspy but there are deep creases around his eyes like he’s smiling under the mask.

“Need a hand?” Peter can’t help but ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, Peter,” Deadpool tsks, disappointed. “That joke’s  _ so  _ overused. But yes, please. Also I need a foot. And a thumb. And a - ” ****  
** **

* * *

Two Fridays later Peter comes back from school to Deadpool with a frozen bag of peas on his head sitting on the living room couch.

Eating a pizza in front of the TV. Watching something with a heavy bass. And boobs.

“I promise I didn’t order a dirty movie!” Deadpool says in a rush, and Peter hasn’t even had a chance to drop his bag.

Peter has a split-second to feel proud of himself for not immediately exploding into a bright blush or for stuttering at the brief flash of a circumsized penis that appears on the TV screen behind Deadpool’s head. But Peter knows the only reason he didn’t have his usual knee-jerk reaction to Deadpool is because he’s exhausted from the work week and the commute home.

_ Thank God May and Ben already left for their weekend trip,  _ he thinks, relieved that the universe has decided to give him a break.

Or as much of break as he can get when it comes to Deadpool.

Peter sighs and closes his eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?” he asks tiredly, but the bass has cut out, making it easier to hear. When Peter opens his eyes again, Deadpool’s changed the porn to an episode of  _ Adventure Time _ .

“Long day?” Deadpool asks, and it might be the lack of sleep, but Peter thinks there’s concern underneath that mask. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, and he’s too tired to file it away to examine it later, so Peter just shrugs it off.

All he knows is that image of the merc watching porn is something that is going to stay with him for a  _ while _ .

“Long  _ week,”  _ he corrects, sliding his backpack to the floor and stepping further into the room. He nods at the pizza box on the coffee table. “Is that pepperoni?”

* * *

The next day there’s a package for Peter.

It’s filled with colorful bath bombs, frilly loofahs, coupons to a fancy massage place, scented candles and an exfoliation kit. There’s another yellow sticky note attached to one of the small packages of expensive-smelling soap that he peels off to read.

_ Webs, _

_ Treat yo self. _

_ -DP _

Peter can’t help the warmth that floods through him, and it’s like his insides have turned into gooey melted chocolate.

“Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy after all,” he allows, his eyes catching another line on the note.

_ P.S.: Feel free to thwack that happy stick on me. _

Confused, Peter digs through all the spa stuff, careful not to crush anything as he brushes them aside. At the very bottom of the box, there’s a DVD of a man in a Deadpool costume winking up at him as he aims a gun at some scantily-clad zombies. Above the image there’s the title in bold, white font:  _ Night of the Living Reampool _ .

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. 

“What the  _ hell?”  _ he exclaims. He brushes that one aside, finds another one that’s called ‘Daddypool’ and five other DVDs, each one starring a different ‘Assvenger’.

“Aaannnddd happy feeling’s gone,” Peter says as the back of his neck heats up.

****

* * *

“By the way, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater,” Deadpool starts cheerfully, his foot swinging idly as he sits on the edge of the bathroom sink’s blue tiled counter.

Peter grunts, all his focus dedicated to the task in front of him.

“Did you ever check out the pornos I sent you? Which one was your favorite? Was it mine?” Deadpool chatters, his low raspy voice on a roll.

Flashes of the porn star Ream Reynold and his co-star Vanessa having hot sex up against a bedroom wall flash through Peter’s mind. The star’s muscles gleaming with sweat, his co-star’s pixie-cut hair disheveled and mulberry painted nails raking through his blond hair -

_ Stop! _ Peter internally screams at his brain. He forces himself to concentrate on his work. It’s hard -  _ difficult - _ to bring his brain back onto the task, but he makes it focus even as he feels a blush start to spread.

“Also, this is totally, in no way, me pressuring you to tell me that it was mine,” Deadpool’s voice continues, drawing Peter out of his head. “Because I’m pansexual and it would  _ totally  _ be unfair of me to judge you based on your porn preferences especially with how often you’ve helped me out. Even though ‘Night of the Living Reampool’ is a _ masterpiece - ” _

“Deadpool, _please_ shut up,” Peter snaps as his blood-stained latex-gloved fingers try to fish out the bullet that’s been lodged into the merc’s calf.

“Oh!” Deadpool yelps, his leg twitching slightly, and Peter’s worried he’s hurt him until the merc settles down again. “Right! Right, sorry.” Peter glances up just in time to watch Deadpool mime zipping his mouth shut.

Peter rolls his eyes, but gets back to work.

There’s a gentle knock on the other side of the locked bathroom door that makes Peter immediately tense up, and stop what he’s doing. The tips of his thumb and forefinger are deep inside the bullet hole in Deadpool’s bloodied calf, and he thinks he can feel the butt of the bullet.

“Peter?” May’s muffled voice asks, yanking his attention away. “Are you okay?”

Heart racing, Peter flicks his eyes up to the merc, who’s also gone completely tense; the white lenses of his mask are wide and he doesn’t look like he’s breathing.

“U-uh, yeah,” Peter stammers, breaking out into a sweat and his blood rushing in his ears. Deadpool rolls a hand in a  _ go on _ gesture. “I just, um, have...diarrhea?”

As soon as the words leave Peter’s mouth, he wants to stuff them back in. He squeezes his eyes shut, avoiding looking at his patient. Peter doesn't even need the mirror above the sink for him to know that he's as red as the tomatoes Ben grows on the kitchen windowsill.

“Oh,” May says, her tone worried. Peter’s face feels really, really hot and he can feel the blush pooling down his neck. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” Peter grunts out, sweeping his panic aside. Instead, he digs his fingers back into the hole, searching for that stupid bullet.  _ There, _ he thinks feeling the damn thing. “Just -  _ ugh _ \- need a few minutes.”

“Okay, honey,” May replies, and the floor creaks like she’s taken a few steps away. “I’ll tell Ben you’re not feeling good.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, trying to sound grateful despite the squelching of blood and muscles and skin around his fingernails.

“Maybe he’ll make you some soup?” May asks, testing.

“Sure,” Peter assures, distracted.

“Okay.” Finally May’s steps go down the hall until Peter can’t hear them anymore.

“Don’t you dare,” he immediately tells Deadpool, flicking his eyes up at him in warning.

The lines around Deadpool’s mouth are pinched and he’s staring down at Peter with crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Deadpool raises one gloved hand and covers his mouth with it, his shoulders shaking.

Peter blows out a breath, the puff of air making the strands of his bangs flutter briefly out of his eyes as he turns back to his work.

“Make sure you wash your hands really good, Petey Pie,” Deadpool tells him, his tone teasing.

“Asshole,” Peter grumbles and Deadpool cackles into his hands. Bubbles of pleasure float up in Peter’s stomach at the sound and he can’t help but smile. ****  
** **

* * *

That night, Peter orders some surgical tools. He wonders how much more he’ll have to buy until the NSA thinks he’s some sort of serial killer and flag him.

He might or might not also rewatch  _ Night of the Living Reampool. _ But that’s between him and his laptop. ****  
** **

* * *

A few days later, a  _ huge _ package comes in the mail.

When Peter opens it, there’s nothing but poop-themed stuff: a necklace with the poop emoji inside, a fuzzy pink toilet seat cover, a few stool softeners, and a pillow that just says ‘crap’ on it.

But at the very bottom is the pièce de résistance: a toilet bowl brush with big googly eyes glued on the bristles, a small white surgical paper mask directly below them that has a smiling mouth and a nose drawn onto it in Sharpie, and a big sparkly yellow cone above the eyes that makes the whole thing look like a unicorn.

And there's the yellow sticky note.

_ Webs, _

_ Thanks for getting down and dirty. I really appreciate you being so excrete. _

It's signed the skull emoji, the poop emoji and the capital letter  _ L _ in a row.

Peter laughs so hard, he can't breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to the discord for helping me come up with great names for Deadpool-themed pornos.


	3. Hooked on a Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Webs!” Deadpool cheers and Peter groans, the sound reverberating through his skull and making his teeth rattle. He raises a hand and rubs his face.

The heat of summer is burning off and autumn’s directly on its heels when Peter starts to get run down.

Over the course of the week, he's late to Patel’s Biomechanics classes - an _hour_ late to an 8AM class, jeez - and eventually he starts to have trouble breathing. Peter tries his hardest to ignore the signs of his impending illness - takes Tylenol for headaches, carries Kleenex packets, waits for his head to stop spinning before he stands. He muscles through his entire day even when his brain feels like it’s slowly catching on fire and his nose starts dripping. After a subway ride from hell that runs longer than usual, and narrowly avoiding a fainting spell on the platform steps that lead up to the street, Peter makes it home.

He sluggishly climbs the stairs up to the apartment and manages to get the door open, when -

 _“There_ you are!” greets Deadpool cheerfully, standing from the couch. Peter blearily blinks at him, his eyebrows scrunching together. _Since when have there been two of him?_ He thinks, fuzzily.

Deadpool doesn’t seem to be stepping closer, but in Peter’s vision, the red suit swims and his boots are just swirling black blobs. Peter blinks a few times, his lips pinching in a grimace. The mask’s white lenses are fixed intensely on Peter, and there’s a wrinkle between where his eyebrows would meet.

“You don’t look so good, Petey,” Deadpool says, his tone concerned. There’s black along the corners of Peter’s vision that’s creeping closer to the center. “Are you okay?”

“’M fine,” Peter assures breathlessly. “Just need to...close my eyes. Just until the room stops spinning…”

Peter’s knees give out and blackness overwhelms him.

* * *

Sound starts to trickle in.

First the noise of the traffic, muffled through the closed window. Then the street vendor's calls, but Peter doesn't know what they're selling; his hearing is muffled, like his ears are stuffed with cotton.

All at once, every ache in his body feels more acute, and he has to take stock of what’s working.

 _Throat: sore. Head: achy. Ears: what a joke. Why does everything hurt?_ _I_ hate _waking up like this._ _Although_ , he has to admit, shifting slightly and experiencing the familiar weight of a comforter on top of him. _It feels marginally better being in bed, with my head on a pillow._

There’s also a voice that Peter doesn’t recognize, speaking.

 _“The tunnel seemed to have no end,”_ says the voice. _“All Bilbo knew was that it was still going down pretty steadily and keeping in the same direction. There were passages leading off to the side every now and then. Of these he took no notice except to hurry past for fear of goblins.”_

Peter definitely knows the book; he recognizes Gollum’s introduction like catching a whiff of chocolate-chip cookies baking in an oven. Ben read _The Hobbit_ to him often enough during his childhood that Peter would know it anywhere. But that _voice._ Peter furrows his eyebrows and tries to get his mothball brain to concentrate; it sounds _so_ familiar, he just can’t place where he knows it from...

He opens his eyes.

 _That can’t be right,_ Peter thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut only to open them again.

Deadpool’s sitting on the edge of his bed, close to Peter’s left hip, his back to Peter and reading the worn brown copy of _The Hobbit_ Peter recognizes from his bookshelf. The ex-mercenary has his legs crossed, foot leisurely tapping the air. Instead of interrupting him with questions, though, Peter just watches and listens.

When he gets to Gollum’s opening lines, Deadpool gives the best Andy Serkis impression Peter’s probably ever heard, and even goes so far as to hunch forward, drawing his shoulders up to where his ears would be.

 _Does..._ Peter blinks, confused. _Does he think I’m awake? Or is he really_ that _theatrical?_

And when Bilbo speaks, Deadpool effects a ridiculous British accent and a meekness that’s so totally out of character, Peter can’t help but give a dry chuckle.

Immediately Deadpool cuts himself off, startled at the noise. He glances over his shoulder at Peter, his gaze meeting Peter’s eyes. The Merc’s face brightens.

 _Yeah, he’s just that theatrical,_ Peter thinks.

“Webs!” Deadpool cheers and Peter groans, the sound reverberating through his skull and making his teeth rattle. He raises a hand and rubs his face.

“Wha’ happened?” he asks, his voice croaky, his throat sandpaper-rough.

“You said hi and then passed out,” Deadpool informs him, and somehow that doesn't make Peter embarrassed. _Must be sicker than I thought,_ he muses.

“Here,” Deadpool tells him, and Peter opens his eyes to a massive bottle of Dayquil.

“Do you - do you just carry Dayquil around with you?” Peter croaks, sitting up in bed, while Deadpool cracks the bottle open, breaking the seal.

“Petey-pie, I never know what kinda emergency I might stumble into,” the merc says sagely as he pours the bottle of the bright orange liquid into the plastic cup, filling it up to the top.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Does that even _work_ for you? How often do you get carded at the pharmacy?”

“Twice a month,” he replies, carefully holding the cup out to Peter. “Drink up me hearty, yo ho.”

Dubiously, Peter takes the cup and tries to throw it back. Once he’s managed to wrangle the thick, burning medicine down his throat, Deadpool hands him a big glass of water to flush the artificial taste out of his mouth. Peter takes it and practically chugs it; the cool water soothes his throat and he wants to pass out again with how good it feels.

Peter slows down when the glass is half empty, tentatively drawing his lips away from the rim. Deadpool takes it back, and sets it on the nightstand beside him.

“You need to drink lots of fluids,” Deadpool tells him, standing up only to crouch over him. Taking the edge of Peter’s comforter, Deadpool drags it up over Peter’s chest until it’s nestled under his chin. “It’s necessary when a sweaty boy has to fight colds.”

Peter blinks up at the superhero, his red-leather clad chest a few inches from touching Peter’s nose. Deadpool’s still chattering away, but Peter’s not listening to the words. Instead he watches him fuss: his hands running over different parts of the comforter, smoothing out wrinkles, picking off invisible lint.

The ex-merc - the _Avenger_ exudes gentleness and care. It’s surreal, honestly, and kinda nice. Peter hates to admit it, but Deadpool sticking around to take care of him when he could have just as easily bailed is kind of - touching.

Peter blinks.

_Oh._

His heart does a flip-flopping in his chest, and he can feel a flush that he knows for a _fact_ isn’t part of his sickness spread across his cheeks. _No, it’s just the fever talking,_ he tries convincing himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. _It’s gotta be._

Peter keeps his hand on his forehead, blinks when he finds the superhero staring.

He’s back to sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask is clear of any wrinkles, and usually Peter can tell what he’s thinking from the pinches in the fabric, except right now. He doesn’t know if he’s just really out of it, or if Deadpool’s dialed up the cryptic, but Peter can’t get a read on him.

Peter’s lips pull down in a frown, and he wishes his tired brain was able to concentrate more on what that expression could mean.

 _Whatever,_ Peter thinks, giving up. Instead he rests back against the headboard and just meets Deadpool’s eyes.

“That’s my favorite book,” he says slowly.“How’d you know?” _Because he_ had _to have known,_ Peter reasons, _and I never said anything._

Deadpool lifts the book from where he’d left it on the nightstand, and twists it around so Peter can only see the spine. “Wrecked spine means it's been read more than once.”

Peter stares in astonishment. _That’s so...bizarrely observant._

“That’s bizarrely observant,” he states, blinking.

Deadpool’s forehead wrinkles, like he’s raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you watch _Elementary_?” he asks. “You can learn a lot of things from Lucy Liu.”

“What?” Peter asks. “You learned that from TV?”

“Nah, I’m just kidding.” Deadpool gives a nonchalant shrug. “I was Special Forces in the military,” he offers, and Peter might be feverish, but even _he_ knows not to take this freely given kernel of information lightly.

“Oh,” he replies. After a beat of silence, Peter lays back down, resting his head on the pillow underneath him. He sighs at the cloudlike comfort, and closes his eyes. “Keep going,” he requests, settling back into the comforter. “Please. It’s - that’s my favorite part.”

Deadpool chuckles, his thigh brushes against Peter’s elbow, and the warmth from the contact spreads across Peter’s body. Once he’s settled, Deadpool’s voice starts up again.   _“Bilbo was so pleased that he made up one on the spot. ‘This’ll puzzle the nasty little underground creature’, he thought...”_

* * *

“Peter?” May’s voice asks from the darkness. “Peter, are you okay?”

Peter groans. He forces his eyes open despite the crustiness he feels gathered around their lids. Ben and May have their heads poked into his room, and going from the bluish light streaming in from outside his window, hours have passed.

“’M not feeling too good,” he manages to croak, curling in on himself.

“Do you need anything?” Ben asks, his usually gruff Queens accent gentling into a whisper. “Soup?”

“No,” Peter says, turning his face into his pillow.

“You need to eat something, Peter,” May tells him.

“’Kay,” allows Peter, his voice muffled.

“When was the last time you took medicine?” Ben asks, curious.

Peter has no clue. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, what time he even fainted. But his silence is answer enough.

“I’ll bring you Nyquil,” May decides, and Peter can hear her walking back down the hall towards the bathroom.

“I’m gonna get you some soup,” responds Ben, and he follows her out.

Peter hums, closing his eyes again.

* * *

The next day, Peter’s still not feeling well. He tells his aunt and uncle as much when they come in to check on him again.

“Probably because you’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Peter,” May says with an exasperated sigh, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “I’m not a fan of your professors - your workload is too much for just you.”

“May, it’s his _job_ ,” Ben replies, looking up at her.

She says something more, but Peter’s checked out of the conversation. He only tunes in again when the door creaks, and Peter opens his eyes. May’s staring back at him from the threshold, her long hair slung over one shoulder.

“Make sure you email your professors,” May reminds him, gripping the doorknob.

“There’s still some stew from the other night in the fridge,” Ben tells him, behind May, gesturing down the hall. “Eat some when you’re hungry, kiddo.”

“M’kay,” Peter says gustily, closing his eyes again and letting sleep take over.

When his brain feels less swimmy, Peter manages to dictate an email to his boss. He takes another dosage of Dayquil, drinks a glass of water, and falls back asleep.

* * *

Someone’s yodeling.

Peter feels his eyebrows scrunch together, his fuzzy brain confused and hurting at the noise. But just as sudden as it started, the screaming stops, and there’s nothing but blessed silence.

* * *

Peter’s not sure how much time passes, but now there’s another noise.

It’s the _Trollolo_ song, he identifies after a solid few seconds of listening to that _lo_ word repeated over and over again. Peter’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes squeezed tighter. _Cell phone,_ his brain somehow manages to point out.

Tiredly, Peter slides a hand out from beneath the warm confines of his comforter and pats the nightstand around for his phone. Once his fingers manage to find the familiar bevelled corners, he pulls the phone towards himself - but it stops short.

Peter groans and blearily opens his eyes. He frowns, confused, at the black charger cord holding his phone back. _I don’t remember plugging you in,_ he thinks, reaching over with his other hand and unplugging it.

He turns his phone over and squints at the picture of MJ flipping him off with a scowl on her face. Confused, Peter slides his thumb up and unlocks it.

“M’ello?” he asks, clearing his throat. _God, I sound dead._

“Peter!” MJ yells, and Peter has to draw back, wincing, her shout bouncing around his head with the intensity of a wrecking ball.

“Shush, you’re too loud,” he complains, rolling over onto his back. He squeezes his eyes shut, reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose.

She laughs breathlessly, the sound tinny from so far away. “Are you okay?!” she asks, her voice sounding…relieved? “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at home,” he croaks, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I called in sick - ”

“You need to answer your phone! Ned and I have been trying to reach you all day!” she accuses, sounding genuinely hurt.

 _We talked yesterday,_ Peter broods, _we Snapchat all the time - the three of us have a group text._ A bad feeling niggles at the back of his brain, a buzzing sensation that makes his stomach twist and is hard to ignore.

This isn’t like MJ.

She isn’t clingy, and doesn’t need to know every single thing that’s happening, she just wants to be kept in the loop. She isn’t so demonstrative about her feelings, preferring instead to keep anything that isn’t a sarcastic observation close to her chest. Hell, it took MJ almost _three years_ of hanging out with them in high school for her to finally admit that he and Ned were her best friends, and that was the first time in their friendship that Peter ever saw her truly vulnerable.

 _Something’s happened,_ he realizes.

Adrenaline floods his veins, and he springs up into a sitting position, his headache and achiness evaporating with a snap.

“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks, throwing the comforter aside and practically launching himself out of bed.

MJ takes a deep, shuddering breath that makes the receiver vibrate. “There's been another attack.”

* * *

It’s the Battle of New York all over again.

Peter’s eyes fly around the TV screen, absorbing as much of the Avengers battle as he can. From what he’s managed to piece together from his Twitter feed, an alien race called the Skrull have come to claim the earth in their eons-long battle against this other race called the Kree. He’s parked in the living room and, despite sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, the news is practically background noise as he refreshes the Twitter app on his phone almost to the point of obsession, and checks all the news websites he can for more information. Deadpool’s business card rests beside his hip, the only other thing he snagged from his room besides his phone.

Apparently there’s this new hero - Captain Marvel? - who’s a specialist when it comes to the Skrull/Kree war, and is helping out the Avengers. The team of superheroes is trying to keep the Skrull from moving north into Midtown, with the police and SHIELD setting up a barrier at 14th Street, and both Twitter and the news are urging anyone south of 20th to evacuate _now_.

 _If I weren’t sick, I’d be at school in Manhattan right now,_ _rather than in Queens,_ the thought keeps playing over and over in Peter’s head, and his skin erupts in goosebumps. _Please let Patel and everyone I work with be okay,_ he pleads to the universe.

Iron Man soars across the screen, a streak of red and gold, and that somehow reassures Peter despite his fear. A half-second later, something - _someone?_ He guesses - shoots past like a comet. Peter’s heart is in his throat, his eyes flitting all over the screen as the TV alternates between different cell phone footage and the news camera at the scene. The camera pans from the Hulk as he is thrown into a squat white building, cutting to follow Cap’s gleaming shield as it arcs overhead only to be caught by Black Widow and swung hard enough across a Skrull’s face that there’s a spray of green blood, and behind them Falcon flies off, carrying Hawkeye off-screen.

 _I don’t see him,_ Peter panics, his rib cage aching with how hard his heart is beating against it. _Is he there? Where is he?_

Peter squeezes the business card between his thumb and fingers, can feel when it starts to bend in his grasp. After a few seconds of watching TV with no sign of Deadpool, Peter unlocks his phone. He flicks his gaze down to the card, briefly catching sight of the familiar black oblong diamond shapes and white eyes as he turns it over and starts punching in the string of numbers on the back into his phone.

It’s as he’s raising the phone to his ear that Peter looks back up at the TV. His eyes catch on a red leather costume that’s as familiar to him as his own skin, and he stops breathing.

Peter watches as, in the background, Deadpool spins, launches at Skrulls and uses his katanas without discrimination; his movements are as fluid and graceful as Gene Kelly’s dancing. Deadpool takes out three Skrull at once, his bullets zipping right through them all in a row, until the camera cuts away to show something less violent.

With the phone pressed against his ear, Peter hears nothing but the phone ringing.

“Come on, come on,” he pleads, gripping the phone tight enough that the joints in his fingers start to lock.

Finally the ringing clicks off, and Peter takes a deep breath to speak.

“You’ve reached the Merc with the Mouth!” recites Deadpool’s voicemail, all smiles and cheer. Peter’s heart starts to sink, but he doesn’t look away from the TV as it focuses on the reporter at the scene. “I’m either Avenging, dimension-travelling, or watching reruns of _The Golden Girls_ ! Thank you for being a friend, call me back! Except you, Bob. _You know what you did._ ”

When the obnoxious beep comes on, Peter immediately starts talking.

“Deadpool,” he breathes, his stomach twisting itself into knots. “You better call me back. Don’t be an asshole and die on me. I don’t care if you have regenerative powers, dying’s not an excuse not to call someone back. It’s Peter.”

He hangs up and immediately tries again.

 _Please pick up,_ Peter begs as his phone’s screen touches his ear. _Tell me to stop calling, tell me you’re busy, tell me to go back to sleep, tease me. Just let me know you’re gonna be okay._

“ - as you can see, Diane, the Avengers are doing everything they can to keep the Skrulls from travelling into Midtown,” the reporter tells her colleagues at the studio. Peter looks up in time to watch the brunette’s face fill the screen. “At this time we don’t know what exactly their plan is for stopping these invading aliens, but we’re told Captain Marvel is assisting in every way she can.”

“As with every Avengers battle,” the lead anchor at the studio cuts in, “we remind our viewers to follow SHIELD evacuation protocols, and get as far away from the battle as possible.”

Peter’s call gets sent to voicemail again. “Call me back. It's Webs,” he implores, hangs up, and redials.

The view on the TV switches abruptly to another perspective, this time closer to where Deadpool is in the background, battling alongside Thor and Iron Patriot. Thor launches himself up into the air and Deadpool’s separating himself from the other Avenger, going after two Skrulls. He’s landing as many blows as he can, spinning and twisting away -

Suddenly another Skrull manages to sneak up behind Deadpool.

Peter’s throat closes up as he watches the massive Skrull that’s nearly the size of the Hulk wrap its bulging arms around Deadpool’s waist and lift him up into the air like he weighs absolutely nothing. He doesn’t hear what the reporter’s saying, he doesn’t hear _anything,_ like...all the sound has gone out of the world. His entire focus narrows to the Skrull lifting Deadpool, watching the Avenger kick out with his legs but to no avail, watching as the Skrull tightens his hold around him and watching as Deadpool throws his head back in a scream.

Peter can’t breathe, can’t do anything but _watch_ as the Skrull crushes Deadpool and he goes limp on the screen.

The Skrull tosses Deadpool aside like a rag doll and he lands with a _crunch_ on top of an abandoned car.

That crunch is the only sound that Peter’s deaf ears manage to pick up.

“You’ve reached the Merc with the Mouth!” exclaims Deadpool’s voicemail, alive and cheerful.

The camera zooms in on the lifeless body on Peter’s TV screen, in total contrast with the voice in Peter’s ear. A numbness Peter’s never experienced travels through his veins, until he can’t even feel the card in his hands. He can’t catch his breath; it comes out too quick and staccato. His head pounds between his ears, like the world’s biggest drum is in his brain.

“I’m either Avenging, dimension-travelling, or watching reruns of _The Golden Girls_ !” continues Deadpool’s disembodied voice in the distance. “Thank you for being a friend, call me back! Except you, Bob. _You know what you did.”_

 _Beeeeeeeeeeep_ interrupts Peter’s thoughts, managing to shock him back to awareness.

Peter’s friend is _dead._

“Deadpool!” he screams, the sound getting caught in his throat. A prickling sensation starts behind his eyes, and he feels the tears well up. “You fucking asshole! Don’t die on me! I didn’t even get to tell you...I didn’t even - ”

 _I didn’t get to tell you that I like you,_ he thinks desperately. _I might_ really _like you._

Peter hunches over, to the point that his chin is touching his knees, and his forehead presses against the hardwood floor while his arms wrap around his midsection. Sobs rack his body; the sharp cut of grief makes his already sore throat tighten like a vice. But now he's screaming and crying; tears streaming down his face, his heart lodged somewhere against his sternum, being ground into dust.

Between his gasping sobs, there’s another noise. It’s quiet at first, but progressively gets louder. Peter blinks his eyes open, his eyelashes damp and clumped with teardrops, and his lungs like a bellows. His ears tune into the noise, trying to identify it until it slowly dawns on him that it’s his ringtone.

Sniffling, Peter raises himself up until he’s sitting up straight and looks down at his phone between his thighs.

 _“For this river, there comes an ocean,”_ croons George Michael. Peter blinks at the number displayed on the cracked screen. “ _Before you throw my heart back on the floor - ”_

“Deadpool,” Peter gasps, the sound punched out of his lungs. He grabs his phone and shakily tries to unlock it, his fingertips sweaty. Finally he manages, and puts it up against his ear.

There’s a rustling noise that Peter recognizes as the phone being moved. He holds his breath.

“Okay,” Deadpool’s voice groans on the other line. “Who the fork is this? Don’t you know I’m an Avenger in the middle of Important Avenger Business?”

The familiar, well-worn voice of his mouthy idiot releases the vice around Peter’s heart and he can’t help the strangled breath he takes.

“If you have a job, you’ll have to buy me out of my contract with SHIELD because I don’t do that anymore - ”

“You fucking _asshole!”_ Peter screams, his eyes squeezing out fresh tears.

“Peter?” Deadpool asks, surprise painting his voice.

“You have to answer your goddamn phone!” Peter keeps shouting, ignores Deadpool as he scrubs at his eyes, wiping away the tears. “I thought you were _dead_ , Deadpool!”

“I’m fine!” he exclaims hastily. “It doesn’t last long, I swear!”

 _“_ I know that, you fucker!” Peter growls. A spark of anger ignites inside of him, shoots up his veins and spreads throughout his body until he’s nothing but pure rage. “That’s not the point, goddamn you! You fucking _died!_ ” His voice cracks, barely managing to get the last word out, remembers the wave of grief that overwhelmed him and the back of his eyes burn. “I _watched_ you die. On _TV._ Do you have any idea of what - what that’s _like?”_

“N-no,” Deadpool stammers. But Peter can’t help it now that the dam’s been broken, and just steamrolls over him.

“Watching your best friend _die_ on TV in front of the entire country - the entire _world?_ And there’s nothing you can fucking _do_ about it? I - ” Peter chokes, like the fumes from his anger are trying to escape through his mouth. His lungs are trying to draw in air, but they can’t.

The image of Deadpool’s lifeless body being carelessly tossed aside, complete with that horrible _crunch_ noise, replays itself over and over behind his eyelids. Peter shakes his head, clearing his brain of the image. _Definitely nightmares tonight,_ he thinks, shuddering.

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Deadpool says, his voice so quiet and careful that it reminds Peter of when his parents died and everyone around him was treating him like glass: fragile, liable to break.

“Don’t do that again, okay?” Peter can’t help but plead, and Deadpool takes a deep breath, the microphone shivering.

“Deadpool,” Peter hears on the other line.

“Uh, I gotta go,” Deadpool says, slightly distracted, his voice not directly in the receiver, and Peter clenches his fist in frustration. “We’re on clean-up duty.”

“Come by later?” Peter asks, tentative.

“Oh,” Deadpool says, and Peter can only imagine what his masked-face looks like: lenses wide, wrinkle-free. “Uh, yeah. Of course. See you.”

“Bye.” Hesitating, Peter pulls his phone away and holds it in his hands, waiting for Deadpool to hang up.

After a few minutes, he does.

* * *

A ball of anxiety makes itself at home in Peter’s gut, and it buzzes like a beehive.

He gets in touch with his aunt and uncle, he’s fucking grateful that they’re alive. But with the evacuation, they’re stuck in Manhattan and it’ll be a while before they can make it back to the apartment.

“Better late and alive than just plain dead,” Ben tells him with a huff of a laugh.

Once Peter hangs up, he FaceTimes MJ and Ned, and manages to reach out to his colleagues. For the most part, everyone he knows is safe and Peter is relieved they managed to evacuate safely.

Despite the news, Peter’s still anxious.

He forces himself to drink water and eat, hoping that’ll help. When it doesn’t, he ends up wandering around his empty apartment like a caged tiger: pacing around his room, avoiding the living room like it’s the scene of a crime as the ball of anxiety bounces around his organs. He’s sure that by the time Deadpool gets here, there’s gonna be a track in his carpet.

The sun’s starting to set, and both May and Ben texted him an hour ago to say they were on their way home, but traffic was horrible. By the time Peter feels a lot less like death microwaved, instead of the lock from the front door turning, there’s a gravelly voice humming followed by a tapping at his window.

Sitting cross-legged on top of his bed’s comforter, Peter leans forward. He recognizes Deadpool’s voice but double-checks by peering between the curtains, relief flooding his system when he sees the man in red crouched on the fire escape. Peter slides off the bed and onto his feet in front of the window.

 _“I’ll be your hero, I’ll be your man, I’ll be your best damn friend til the end,”_ he hears Deadpool sing quietly once he cracks the window an inch, and can feel Deadpool’s eyes on him as he heaves open the frame with a grunt.

Peter steps back to let the Avenger through, his boot sticking in through the window first, followed by his head. The back of Peter’s knees press against his mattress, and waits until Deadpool - _I can’t believe this guy_ actually _works with Iron Man,_ he thinks with disbelief - is standing fully in his bedroom.

Deadpool straightens to his full height, a few inches taller than Peter, and stands in front of him.

Peter stays where he is, lets his eyes flick all over Deadpool, automatically looking for blood. But apart from a few tears here and there in his costume, he looks okay. Although Peter’s almost positive that the superhero dusted himself off before coming over, because he distinctly remembers there being a _lot_ of wreckage on TV.

That...thoughtfulness kind of touches Peter, making something in his chest soften and melt inside him. It’s with that thought that he thinks of the first time they’d met. _He was laying right here,_ Peter realizes, blinking, _bleeding out on my floor._

Deadpool shuffles his feet slightly, and it makes Peter realize he’d been staring for probably longer than he thought.

Peter winces, realizing how uncomfortable Deadpool must be, especially since the last time they’d talked Peter tore him a new one. _Better than him being dead,_ Peter can’t help thinking and he shoves that thought away; the memory of the _crunch_ all too fresh in his mind.

“Thank you for coming,” he acknowledges gently, his shoulders sagging as the tension bleeds out of him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs heavily, letting the ball of anxiety in his stomach uncoil. He’s suddenly so tired - he’s emotionally, mentally exhausted, but he knows he has to talk to Deadpool about his feelings.

A light touch on Peter’s arms brings him back to himself, and his eyes flutter open to see Deadpool’s face staring at him.

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Deadpool says, carefully putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders, the weight grounding him. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Please believe me when I say I _never_ wanted you to ever see that. I always wanted to protect you from seeing that part of my job. I’d give my right arm so you’d never have to watch me get hurt - ” Peter flinches, and with Deadpool touching him, he _knows_ the Avenger felt it. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that - ”

“No, I get it,” Peter says on a sigh. He reaches up and scrubs at his face. “It’s fine,” he muffles into his hands. He exhales, long and loud, until he finally drops his hands and looks up into Deadpool’s mask.

The lenses are watching him carefully, the wrinkles all but gone in the red leather cloth, waiting to see what Peter will do next, his hands still clamped on Peter’s shoulders.

“Don’t do that again, okay?” Peter asks again.

A flash of hurt crosses Deadpool’s mask. His eyebrows pinching together, grimace lines appearing around his mouth, and his body visibly sags as he drops his hands from Peter’s shoulders. A chill rushes in to replace the warmth of the superhero’s hands, and Peter doesn’t feel hurt by that, he _doesn’t._

“I can’t, Petey,” Deadpool says, his voice strangled. “You _know_ I can’t promise that - ”

“I know,” Peter sighs, defeatedly flicking his eyes back down to the floor. “It’s stupid - ”

“No,” Deadpool interrupts, and Peter glances up in time to see him shake his head. “No it’s not stupid, but listen. I can’t promise I won’t die again, because I - ” Deadpool tenses, like he’s getting ready to be punched, and it confuses Peter, but he stays quiet as Deadpool closes his eyes and says in a rush: “I’m doing this heroing thing for you.”

Peter blinks, his breath stolen from his lungs.

The area of Deadpool’s mask covering his mouth flutters, as Deadpool pushes out a huge exhale and his shoulders go lax, his broad chest collapsing. Peter gets the feeling he’s about to come clean about something, and waits for whatever it is he’s going to say. Without saying a word, Deadpool raises his hands to where the collar of his uniform is. He twists the flap down and Peter can see the edge of his mask and a peek of ruined flesh. Deadpool starts rolling the mask up until it’s just above his chin, and _keeps rolling it up._

Peter blinks, astonished, his breath caught in his throat as Deadpool takes his mask completely off; finally revealing his face.

Even though Peter’s seen Deadpool’s arms and legs while digging out bullets or applying sutures, and watched as the superhero grew back actual limbs, he _knows_ how wrecked Deadpool’s flesh is, yet he can’t help but stare now, absorbing everything. Deadpool’s face is pink and made up of sores and puckered skin. His lips are chapped and Peter thinks once upon a time they were cupid’s bow until they were thinned and the natural pinkness had gone out of them. Pockmarks are sprinkled across his nose, there are scars along his cheeks, his eyebrows are gone, his head is bald with veins popping out, and there are burn marks on his forehead and on his temples.

Deadpool’s eyes raise up to meet his, the superhero’s dark eyelashes sweeping across his ravaged cheeks, and Peter’s struck by his eyes.

 _They’re brown,_ Peter realizes, and all the air escapes his lungs. They’re as dark and as rich as chocolate, and so utterly warm, Peter nearly collapses. _His eyes are brown._

Deadpool’s eyes flick down again, and Peter blinks. The spell’s not quite broken, but he remembers they’d been talking about something important, and he tries to concentrate.

“You were -” his voice cracks, and he clears it while wracking his brain for the thread of their conversation. “You said you were being a hero for _me?”_ he asks incredulously. “But you were already an Avenger when we met.”

It’s Deadpool’s turn to clear his throat, and _wow,_ it’s weird _seeing_ him doing that rather than just hearing it.

“I wasn’t before,” he confirms, and Peter watches as he starts to relax incrementally. “But early in our - okay, it wasn’t a ‘friendship’ per se, it was more of a _‘I’ll crash your apartment, you play nurse but without the sexy outfit and patch me up’_ kind of relationship, and that was fine. But I was getting my ass handed to me from here to California, to Jersey and back, and I wasn’t rolling in dough like I thought - so I, very briefly mind you, entertained the idea of taking up mercenary work again.”

Disappointment rips through Peter’s core and he automatically opens his mouth, the recited lecture about killing and how wrong it is he’s given to Deadpool more than once, just waiting to be delivered on the tip of his tongue. But Deadpool throws his hands up, and waves them.

 _“But_ I knew what you thought about my old life!” he says quickly, and Peter snaps his mouth shut. “And, well. Your opinion of me mattered more than whether or not I was making bank. And,” he sighs again, almost like he’s gonna regret whatever he’s gearing up to say next. “On days of hero-ing where even after doing everything _right_ , it’s _still_ a bad day - I’d climb through your bedroom window like a much more handsome Romeo and you’d be right there, waiting with your first aid kit and a sarcastic word, ready to patch me up.”

Deadpool’s mouth shifts into a smirk, and Peter watches, fascinated, as a dimple appears. A different kind of warmth goes through him at the sight. “Even when I crashed into your life, uninvited, you helped me out. Even when you’re about to throw up because the gore’s too much, or you’re tired because of your day, you always help me out, no questions asked. And I thought, ‘if Peter, this amazing, _good_ human being thinks a walking smear of a human could be a good person, well. Maybe I can be.’”

Deadpool’s eyes meet Peter’s, and he definitely can’t breathe; all the air’s caught in his lungs. “Because _you_ make me want to be a better person, Petey,” Deadpool tells him, his tone brutally honest, and his dark eyes are warm with so much affection that Peter wants to drown in them. “Because you’re my friend, and people you love make you a better person.” Deadpool shrugs helplessly, his lips curling humorlessly. “That was the whole reason why I wanted to protect you from the bad part of my life, Peter, but I wanted to keep coming back after the bad it was over because you’re what makes it good. And I can’t keep being a hero if something happens to you, so. If I gotta die a few times to keep you safe, then so what? At least you’re alive to see another day.”

There’s a few beats of silence as Peter tries to process everything that the ex-mercenary’s just told him, his entire body brimming with warmth. _Except,_ he thinks in disbelief and he wants to smack himself, _I never told him what I wanted to say on the phone._

He looks back up at Deadpool, who’s staring pointedly at the Neil deGrasse Tyson poster hanging behind Peter with all the intensity of someone who wants desperately to move on from this conversation.

 _Welp,_ Peter tells himself, screwing up all his courage - which is barely a tenth of what Deadpool has in order to face whatever he does each day, if Peter’s honest - _in for a penny._

Peter takes two steps forward until he’s standing in front of Deadpool, leans forward and wraps his arms high around the Avenger, slightly above his elbows; effectively pinning his red-clad arms to his sides.

Deadpool’s nothing but pure muscle, thick around the chest, and when he immediately tenses in Peter’s arms, it’s like hugging a tree. _I wanna punch anyone who’s ever hurt you_ , Peter thinks fiercely, and wants nothing more than to protect the Avenger from any and everything. He reflexively curls tighter around Deadpool.

“You are literally the _dumbest_ human being I have ever met in my life,” Peter tells Deadpool’s neck. His exposed skin is rough against Peter’s cheek, but it’s not as unbearable as he thought. He pulls away and looks straight into Deadpool’s eyes, which are wide and staring at him uncomprehendingly. “But I would give literally _anything_ if I could call you _my_ dumb human being.”

Deadpool blinks once, twice, and his hands come up to grip at Peter’s pajama-clad hips.

“How do I know you’re the real Peter and not some Skrull?” he asks carefully, his forehead pinching in concern. Peter feels Deadpool’s fingers twitch against his waist.

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugs, easily slides his arms the short distance for them to drape over Deadpool’s shoulders. Peter weaves his fingers together and holds his hands behind the Deadpool’s neck. “How do I know _you’re_ you?”

“Touché.” Deadpool replies, the skin shifting around his forehead as he raises an eyebrow at Peter. “So, hypothetically speaking, if I’m not me and you’re not you, does this mean I can kiss you and not get slapped?”

Peter can’t help but give him a smile, bursts of happiness in his chest. “I dunno, man,” he says, can feel his smile cracking wider. “I’d rather just kiss you _because_ you’re you.”

“Oooh,” Deadpool coos, his lips pinching together, and Peter can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of him. “That was so smooth, baby boy!”

“Please don’t make that a thing,” Peter asks, not really expecting much.

“It’s _totally_ gonna be a thing!” Deadpool assures, his fingers squeezing Peter’s hips. “Or my name isn’t Wade Winston Wilson!”

“Wade Winston Wilson?” Peter repeats, scrunching his nose in disbelief. “Really?”

“Oh, like _you’re_ one to talk, Peter Parker,” Deadpool rolls his eyes, leans his face closer into Peter’s space, making his heart thrill, and takes extra care to pop the two ‘p’s without spitting in Peter’s face.

“Hey! I can’t help what my parents named me!” he exclaims, laughing, and tilts his head to the side.

Deadpool... _Wade_ mirrors him: tilts his head in the opposite direction, his eyes half-lidded. Something magnetic between them draws them together and they’re pressing their faces closer, shrinking the last two inches of personal space between them. Peter’s eyes slide closed in anticipation, and his heart seems to stop mid-beat.

His lips press against Wade’s, the chapped skin rough against Peter’s lips. Peter’s heart pounds double-time in his chest, and there's a well of what’s _definitely_ too early to be called love flowing out of him for this ridiculous man.

Wade tilts his head in the other direction and Peter’s knees go weak. Wade presses closer, until he’s a line of heat against Peter’s chest, and it feels so good.

They pull away at the same time, only far enough that they both can catch their breaths. Peter leans his forehead against Wade’s, his eyes fluttering open to find Wade’s doing the same thing. Peter smiles, and he feels brighter than the sun. It just makes him smile harder when Wade’s lips break out into a grin.

“What the _fuck?!”_ shrieks a voice that Peter instantly recognizes as Aunt May’s.

Everything freezes as Peter whips his head around to look at his bedroom door. May and Ben are standing like statues in the threshold, with matching expressions of shock and horror on their faces.

“Oh shit,” Wade mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DP reading _The Hobbit_ is a nod to Hannah Blumenreich. She's the best when it comes to Spidey.
> 
> As far as this fic is concerned, there's more I want to add - but for the most, the main story arc is complete.


End file.
